Black Sheep International: The Road to Leh

By Anna Mendham

Wherever you go, there you are.

A run away from Britains Care system, Maya More now paints in a remote region of the Indian Himalayas. Surrounded by spirit-worshipping farmers and emerald green mountains, all would be bliss if she could only sell her art. But with little market for her male nudes shes forced to commute to Manali, the nearest tourist town, and work as a part-time guide.

Offered a handsome payment to help organize a marriage proposal on the roof of the world, Maya spends days with a charismatic film-maker only to find that shes falling in love with him herself. Determined to be professional, she orchestrates the couples perfect moment yet despite her meticulous planning the event spawns disaster forcing her to confront both the mountains dark underbelly and her own tangled past.

A mystery; a love story; a tale of self transformation: Black Sheep International is a rollicking romp of a read set amidst the bizarrely beautiful culture of The Valley of The Gods.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532016912

Anna Mendham

Author of Dog Rose and winner of the Brit Writers Award, Anna lives in the Himalayas with her man mountain Graham.

Book preview

1

T he landscape commanded awe, but all I felt was envy. The subject of my begrudging being one of my clients whose life, to my mind, was teetering on undeserved perfection.

We were parked at the summit of Bara Lacha Pass — a black, snow-dappled mountain ridge stretching towards the horizon like a vast swathe of zebra skin before soaring into glistening, glacial peaks. Elka, a freelance producer, was dictating her inspirations into a voice-recorder, whilst Christian, her camera man and lover, captured the scenery with slow, sweeping shots. Awaiting the end of their take, I quietly unpacked my motorcycle saddlebags and laid out a traditional Indian breakfast on a picnic blanket.

‘The Himalayan region of Ladakh is a pristine wilderness,’ Elka dictated in her strong German accent, ‘only permitting vehicles for four months of each year, when the summer’s heat melts a passage through its icy terrain…’

At twenty seven — a galling two years my junior — this woman seemed to have it all: unfathomable wealth; a glittering career; and, unbeknownst to her, Christian was due to propose marriage later that day.

Finishing her musings, Elka took a seat on the far corner of the picnic blanket and eyed the spiced chai and potato stuffed flat-breads with distaste.

‘I don’t do wheat or dairy,’ she said, in a tone that suggested I was a moron for not knowing these hitherto unmentioned facts.

Visualising my end of journey tip I forced an apologetic smile and said, with the merest hint of irony, ‘it’s the only way breakfast comes at 16,000 ft above sea level.’

I struggled to hold her cold stare and reluctantly realised that even with a scowl on her face Elka, with her high cheekbones and cascade of chestnut curls, looked gorgeous. I, on the other hand, felt like shit. We’d abandoned our tents pre-dawn and though my alarm had been set for 4am, breakfast preparations had swallowed any time that could have been spent preening. Not that my appearance could have been much improved without a hot shower and a moisture surge conditioner, (who knew what high altitude did to bleached hair?) A woolly hat and shades were my only saving graces, my own brand of beauty too dependent on pots and potions to survive in the wilderness — not that I usually cared.

‘Looks can only carry you so far,’ my Gran used to caution when she caught me pouting in front of a mirror. The thought of her always made me smile, knowing that if she’d still been alive when I’d made it to art college — let alone all the way to India —she’d have hung my portrait in a gilded frame and demanded that everyone on the housing estate pay worship to her ‘golden girl.’ But bathing in the pride of dead ancestors can only do so much for your self esteem and confronted that morning by Elka’s disparaging gaze and platinum life, my golden one felt decidedly frayed and shabby.

Christian turned off his camera and bounded over to the picnic.

‘Awesome, I’m starving,’ the Californian said, reaching for a flat-bread and accepting a cup of chai. ‘Did you even sleep?’ he laughed amidst mouthfuls, considerate enough to wonder how I’d found time to rustle up a meal. Downing the spiced tea, he sighed with satisfaction and gladly accepted another. ‘Thanks for this Maya,’ he said, his broad smile bringing a sparkle to his eyes, ‘and for getting us up so early. The light’s been phenomenal.’

Before I could respond to Christian’s praise, Elka broke our line of sight — leaning across the blanket to press a kiss to his amenable mouth and speak softly in German using a sweet tone that she reserved solely for him. He responded in her language and they kissed again, this time with an intensity that made me turn away.

‘Go ahead if you’re bored Elka,’ Christian suggested as she finally relinquished her grip, ‘find the next epic shot, we’ll soon catch you up on the bikes.’ They shared a last, lingering kiss and then she strode towards her rented jeep without even casting a glance in my direction.

Is a guide so lowly an employee, I fumed, as I watched her expensively clad figure climb gracefully into the black vehicle, that you feel entitled to treat them like nothing?

As his partner disappeared, Christian began the painstaking ritual of repacking his reinforced bike luggage with cameras and accoutrements. Gadgets which he professed to never leave out of reach due to the world’s propensity for presenting cinematic wonders at unexpected turns.

With Elka out of the way, I’d instantly relaxed and, after stowing the breakfast things, I rested against my motorbike — a classic Royal Enfield — inserted my headphones and selected the perfect tune to enhance the majesty of my surrounds.

At such extraordinary elevation I could see ridge upon ridge of mist hazed mountains surging towards the horizon like colossal waves, their shimmering snow caps seeming reflected in the heavens by the drifting clouds above.

With soaring spirits, I smiled with the memories of last night’s camp fire. Made queasy by the high altitude, Elka had long since gone to bed leaving Christian and I to enjoy each other’s company. Basking in the warmth and beauty of the dancing flames, I’d begun quizzing him about his humble You Tube beginnings in film and become audibly impressed about how cool his rise to conventional success had been.

‘No Maya,’ he’d responded shaking his head, ‘I’m just one of life’s lucky cowards. I hide behind a camera, peeping at the world through a lens, whilst you…you fully live; you thrive amidst the madness, the shining star of your own unfurling movie.’

Lost in the pleasure of recollection, I was unaware of Christian’s approach until his shadow fell across my face. Extracting a headphone I regarded my new friend with an easy smile.

‘Ready?’ I said.

Christian nodded, ‘how far is it now?’ he asked, referring to the stunning location, where — due to my painstaking efforts and his handsome payment — a group of Ladakhi musicians, an alfresco chef, and a bottle of champagne were awaiting his and Elka’s arrival.

‘About an hour and a half away,’ I replied, using time to map the journey for there was no point describing the distance in miles as the road conditions were forever varying between rubble, mud and river crossing.

‘I feel terrified,’ Christian groaned, his brow deeply furrowed, ‘this could turn into a disaster: what if she says no?’

I made a show of pausing my music, winning time to muster something appropriate to say. I knew that a better woman would automatically offer bolstering words but for me silence itself was an act of generosity. The voice of my old foster father resounded in my head, ‘truth is vastly over-rated,’ and perhaps he’d been right, for what good would it do to tell Christian — having only known him for a week — ‘if your girlfriend says no, then she’ll be granting you a lucky escape’? And if I’d permitted myself to say that much it would’ve unleashed my torrent of thoughts on the matter: Can’t you see what a bitch she is to everyone but you? She’s only where she is because she was handed everything on a platter; and it’s your ten years of film making that made it possible for her to pitch this project to her daddy’s friend at National Geographic, so stop being so obscenely grateful…

Struggling against temptation, I took a deep breath and composed myself. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about,’ I offered, with what I hoped was a reassuring smile, ‘Elka would be a fool to say no. You’re attractive, intelligent, funny, kind… even I,’ I continued in a jokey voice, ‘would have made a play for you if you weren’t so obviously besotted.’

To my relief levity returned to Christian’s face and he grinned as he asked, ‘would you have uploaded a painting of me onto your man hating website?’

‘My art is man adulating not hating,’ I protested with a laugh, ‘and I bet you’ve never criticized Botticelli or Gustav Klimt for painting legions of naked women,’ I continued, ignoring his actual question — because I was hardly going to admit that I’d been yearning to paint his achingly attractive form.

‘Come on, let’s go,’ I said, setting such fantasies aside, ‘you don’t want to be late for your big date.’

We hit the road with the entire focus of our capabilities, descending the mountain in a spray of loose stone and dust. For fifteen minutes the challenging terrain erased the possibility of thought and we used our bikes as if part of our own bodies as we swung the machines over the rugged terrain.

A quarter of the way down, the surface profoundly improved — the tarmac expanding from a seam around craters to a semi smooth surface that covered at least two thirds of the road. I turned my throttle transforming the engine’s growl into a satisfying roar. With throbbing metal clenched between my thighs I governed my machine with the movement of my hips. Feeling powerful and potent I took the next bend at speed, defying gravity as I leaned against its curve, but in an instant I was forced to regret such lust for there on the road was a frightful obstruction — a body sprawled across my way.

With a screech of breaks and a cloud of dust, I swerved sharply into the remaining space, avoiding the precipice by inches. Adrenalin coursed through my system and I quickly turned intent on warning Christian. At a swift but steadier pace I passed the body again — a shabbily dressed local girl in a pool of blood, her left arm and leg bent at grossly unnatural angles.

‘I’m coming back,’ I shouted, though fearing myself unheard, and just made it around the bend in time to flag Christian to a halt.

‘Someone’s hurt,’ I gasped. ‘A local,’ I added, seeing horror take hold of his features and wanting to reassure him that it wasn’t Elka. Though the stuck up bitch is probably responsible, I thought, though with more sympathy than malice, because this was the stuff of nightmares, you wouldn’t wish it on anyone, and even a filthy rich father wouldn’t be able to mop up a mess of blood from a conscience.

We parked our bikes and ran towards the body, our lungs heaving as they grasped at the limited oxygen in the thin air. Closing in, I realised that the cast of the girl’s pretty face was more Nepalese than Indian; her smooth features placing her age anywhere between sixteen and twenty-four. I crouched by the girl’s side and clasped her icy hand in mine.

‘Hello?’ I said, staring into the unmoving face, ‘Namaste?’ I tried, though losing conviction. ‘Can you hear me,’ I called, as I searched for the girl’s pulse.

‘She’s dead,’ I finally uttered, stating the unwanted but obvious truth. Tears rose in my eyes, my spontaneous sorrow dredging my memory, dragging another wasted life to the surface of my mind. I hadn’t seen my teenage friend’s corpse but how different could Ruby have looked, sharing as she had this Nepalese’s straight black hair and smooth pale skin.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Christian groaned, his face ashen, unable to tear his eyes away from the life-less girl, her strangely serene face haloed by a pool of blood. ‘What happened?’ he uttered. ‘Where the hell’s Elka? We need to find her. Christ. What has she done?’

His words echoed my initial conclusion but now that I was crouched by the dead girl’s side, her rigid hand in my own, reason began penetrating my fog of shock.

‘No,’ I muttered, frowning and shaking my head against the truth emerging in my mind — this rigor mortised girl had been dead much longer than Elka had been gone. ‘Fuck,’ I uttered, finally grasping the implications of a cold, spread-eagled corpse not bearing any tire tracks.

Rising from the dead girl’s side, I stumbled to the road’s precipice before sinking to my knees, hands pressed to my mouth to contain my audible dismay. There, a hundred metres below, a crumpled black jeep teetered precariously on a vast boulder its steaming engine announcing the freshness of its disastrous flight. But however horrific the visual impact it was nothing compared to the adjoining bellow of Christian’s agonised screams.

2

M anali Mall (the town’s pedestrianised high street) bustled with the laughter and colour of domestic tourists: wives and mothers appeared like exotic blooms, swathed in the silks and sparkles of their holiday finery; men in pastel hued turbans and matching polo shirts posed with their candy-floss for beaming selfies; seniors lolled on park benches, their swollen feet tended to by oily haired masseuses; a raggedy circus troop performed feats amidst the throng, walking tight ropes and turning somersaults to ripples of applause.

As I weaved my way through the crowd the light hearted atmosphere seemed surreal after the severity of the previous thirty-six hours. On the lonely drive home I’d been longing to get back to civilisation, back to the peace and contentment of my own simple life, but now here I realised that the tragedy would haunt me and despite the day’s warmth I shivered as images of the mangled wreckage and Christian’s devastated face bloomed in my mind.

In pursuit of help, I’d abandoned him on the mountainside and driven to the nearest satellite phone located at an Army checkpoint. The journey had taken a fraught hour, but within twenty minutes of my arrival the efficient officers had organised a rescue helicopter and dispatched a vehicle to follow me back.

In my absence, Christian had somehow scrambled down the mountain face to the crumpled jeep; kicked through the shattered back window; dragged copious luggage out of the way; pulled Elka’s body from the wreckage; and, unable to detect any sign of life, commenced with CPR.

It chilled me to think how long he’d been performing this desperate ritual, ferocious in his attempt to enact a resurrection. It had taken the strength of two medics to prise him free of Elka’s body and I’d winced at the vision of his blood smeared mouth, stained by the grisly last kiss he’d been forced to bestow.

A small hand tugged at my t-shirt, dragging me back to the smoother terrain of my present.

‘Asha,’ I exclaimed, with both relief and pleasure as I looked down at the barefoot eight year old clad in a filthy pyjama suit. ‘Where are those flip-flops I bought you?’ I asked in Hindi, though suspecting that the child had traded them for snacks.

Gurgling with laughter, Asha avoided the question by throwing her arms around my waist in a hug. ‘I’m hungry,’ she then implored with a winning smile, before going on to plead — as always — for ‘bis-kut; chipsies; ize-krem,’ the ubiquitous refrain of all Manali’s street kids.

‘Who’s your friend?’ I asked, ignoring her entreaties and looking at a pretty, but sullen faced girl half cowering behind Asha’s small frame.

‘This is Basanti, I’m looking after her,’ she explained proudly, before adding ‘she likes very much bis-kut, chipsies, ize-krem.’

I laughed at the girl’s recalcitrance, and fished in my pocket for change. Usually I’d drag Asha to the market and buy her a bunch of bananas, but I was already late for lunch with friends so I simply handed the children twenty rupees apiece. At the appearance of hard cash Asha nearly levitated with excitement whilst Basanti barely looked up from the bib of her badly stained dress. For wrong or right, I realised that Asha’s gratifying reactions would keep me putting my hand in my pocket, whilst I doubted that I’d even remember her friend’s glum little face.

‘Buy something nutritious,’ I said, before continuing on my way, but— inevitably—the girls scampered off in the direction of the nearest ice cream vendor.

The waiter appeared in the courtyard with a tray laden with butter naan, paneer skewers and cappuccinos. I leaned back in my chair, soaking in the sun’s heat and the view of the lush mountains that soared behind Manali’s ramshackle skyline. In the company of my two friends I’d finally relaxed. Though I always met up with Shivani and Jess after returning from a tour, I’d never been so relieved to see them, and as they’d wrapped me in their arms I felt as if I was being welcomed home after an extraordinarily long journey.

‘Dudh aur chinni?’ Shivani demanded of the waiter, contorting her beautiful features into a pose of exasperation and twisting her splayed hand at the wrist in the peculiarly Indian gesture which, roughly translated, means ‘WTF?’

‘Shivani!’ Jess and I admonished as the waiter bowed and scuttled away to do her bidding.

‘How many times do I come here each week?’ Shivani countered, ‘every time I order a sweet, white coffee and every time that fool forgets to bring both the milk and sugar.’ Seeing that her English friends were unmoved by her lawyer’s logic she fixed us with a scathing look. ‘You are guests in my country so stop judging me by your superficial notions of politeness and equality. You sister-fucking Brits are the worst! You certainly didn’t extend my nation such courtesies when you invaded and plundered us for centuries, so don’t come back seventy years later and try to teach me your so called good manners!’

Jess blushed, her excellent education having explicitly revealed the horrors wrought around the world by the British Empire, but I wasn’t so easily humbled.

‘Don’t bother guilt tripping me,’ I responded, ‘I owe no allegiance to that soggy island after being yanked through its Care system. And I’m certainly not carrying the blame for what a bunch of psycho politicians did and still do. And anyway, it’s no excuse for you to treat people like shit.’

Shivani chuckled, always enjoying a spot of confrontation over lunch and, to both appease and mock us, when the waiter returned with the milk and sugar she suppressed the warm lilt of her Indian accent and in a plummy voice told him that she would be, ‘eternally grateful for his diligent service.’

‘Was that so hard?’ I enquired with a raised eyebrow.

‘Choop Kar!’ Shivani responded, commanding me to shut up.

Jess, forever unsettled by our rough play, pressed me to continue with my story, ‘you’d just got to the bit where Elka’s body had been winched aboard the helicopter and Christian was about to follow.’

My eyes glazed as I remembered the medics gently informing him that he could only take essentials aboard the helicopter. As I passed him his day bag, he’d pulled aside his oxygen mask and implored me to take the rest of his possessions as compensation for my trouble. ‘Sell everything,’ he’d said, gesturing towards the pile of cases and camera equipment, his face bleak and pale, ‘it’s all meaningless now.’

Yeah, but it won’t be later, I’d thought, as I watched his gaze fall on Elka’s guitar case, its very presence drawing tears to his eyes. ‘I’ll flag down a truck and get it dropped at Manali,’ I’d assured him, ‘I can send it on to you whenever you want.’

‘There’s nothing left to want,’ Christian said as the rescue team clipped him into a harness. ‘And please, get rid of this for me,’ he urged, pulling the ring box from his pocket and thrusting it into my hand, ‘I never, ever want to see it again.’

Before I could think of an appropriate response, his feet had left the ground and he was hauled heavenward in pursuit of his dead girlfriend.

Shivani shook her head, setting her mane of black hair sumptuously a’sway, ‘such a terrible thing to happen to anyone,’ she sighed, ‘but to a pair of love birds…’

My friend’s easy compassion made me prickle with guilt, a painful sensation that I’d been clasping hold of since the accident. Though I’d never wanted any harm to befall Elka, I had idly — perhaps vehemently — wished that she was out of the picture.

Previously, I would have abhorred the thought of lusting after someone else’s partner, but in many ways Christian’s unavailability had been my stumbling block. Knowing from the beginning that he was promised to another, I’d simply relaxed into the pleasure of his company and a friendship had bloomed — an ease and closeness that I hadn’t achieved with a man for years. I would never have made a move but that hadn’t stopped me lying in bed imagining us meeting in some alternate reality. And then there was the matter of the ring, that bloody engagement ring, which now — due to the grimmest of circumstances — was in my possession. Be careful what you wish for, a voice jeered inside my head.

I looked from Shivani to Jess, knowing that I should share this dark recess of my heart as confession would be cathartic. I took a deep breath, opened my mouth and then lost my nerve.

‘How’s your work at the orphanage going Jess?’ I asked instead, using the word work in a broad sense as it was my friend’s trust fund which supported all her charitable endeavours. In my periphery I could see Shivani running a disparaging eye over the baggy pyjama suit that Jess had chosen to wear to lunch. The day’s sludge green outfit was sure to have been made from organic cotton and coloured with natural dyes, but these ethical merits didn’t prevent her from looking drowned in drab cloth.

‘I don’t want to draw attention to myself,’ Jess would protest if we tried to persuade her into something that would at least hint at her decent figure.

‘You’re a white-skinned red-head in Asia, attention is inevitable,’ Shivani pointed out, her personal preference being well tailored trouser suits in hot pink or blaze yellow.

‘Revel in your exoticism,’ I’d suggest, my own monochrome wardrobe especially chosen to stand out amidst India’s riot of colour, ‘if they’re going to stare put on a spectacle. Men are much less likely to hassle you if they’re slightly in awe of you.’

But Jess looked habitually pained by such ideas and continued wearing her collection of ethnic shrouds which combined with her apologetic stance proved to be a magnet for every pervert and weirdo in the land.

‘The orphanage is thriving,’ Jess responded to my cowardly question, ‘but we can talk about that anytime. Tell us more about your ordeal! In The Times of India they described Elka as Christian’s fiancé, but from what you’ve said, she never had a chance to make that decision. It seems frightfully unfair for the media to make the choice for her.’

‘I read that article as well,’ I ventured, unwilling to return to the subject of the doomed engagement, ‘but what really pissed me off about it was that the Nepalese girl